“This article is on Goshawk Hall that we heard about at Bellwood. It says that the
re’s been a recent find at Goshawk of papers of the Stafford family—and the papers date from the sixteenth century. The papers are now being studied by Dr. Hamilton J. Nolman, a young man with . . . There’s an impressive list of his credentials, then . . . it says that Dr. Nolman ‘hopes to prove that Nicholas Stafford, who was accused of treason at the beginning of Elizabeth the First’s reign, was actually innocent.’”
When Dougless looked at Nicholas, the expression in his eyes was almost embarrassing.
“This is why I have been sent here,” he said softly. “Nothing could be proved until these papers were found. We must go to Goshawk.”
“We can’t just go. First, we’ll have to petition the owners to look at the papers.” She closed the magazine. “What size of house must it be to have misplaced a trunkload of papers for four hundred years?”
“Goshawk Hall is not so large as four of my houses,” Nicholas said as though he were offended.
Dougless leaned back in the chair and felt that at last they were getting somewhere. She had no doubt that these papers had belonged to Nicholas’s mother, and they contained the information Nicholas needed to prove himself innocent.
“Well, hello.”
They looked up to see the pretty young woman who had explained baseball to Nicholas. “I thought that was you,” she said, then gave Dougless the once-over. “Is this your friend?”
“I’m merely his secretary,” Dougless said, rising. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Lord?!” the young woman gasped. “You’re a lord?”
Nicholas started to leave with Dougless, but the overexcited American, thrilled at meeting a lord, would not allow him to go.
As Dougless went back to the hotel, she was trying her best to think of her letter to Goshawk Hall, but, actually, she was thinking mostly of Nicholas flirting with the pretty American. It didn’t matter to her, of course. This was just a job. Soon she’d be home, teaching her fifth graders, dating now and then, visiting her family and telling them all about England—and explaining how she was ditched by one man and half fell in love with a man who was married and about four hundred and fifty-one years old.
The best Dougless-story yet, she thought.
By the time she got to the hotel, she was slamming things about. Damn all men, she thought. Damn the good ones as well as the bad. They broke your heart over and over again.
“I see your temper has not improved,” Nicholas said from behind her.
“My temper is not your concern,” she snapped. “I was hired to do a job, and I’m doing it. I’m going to write Goshawk Hall and see when we can look at the papers.”
Nicholas was beginning to get angry himself. “The animosity you be-mete to me has not foundation.”
“I have no animosity toward you,” she said with fury. “I’m doing my best to help you so you can get back to your loving wife and to your own time.” Her head came up. “I just realized that there’s no need for you to be here. I can do the research alone. You can’t read modern books anyway. Why don’t you go to . . . to the French Riviera or somewhere? I can do this by myself.”
“You would that I leave?” he asked softly.
“Sure, why not? You could go to London and party. You could meet all the beautiful women of this century. We have lots of tables nowadays.”
Nicholas stiffened. “You want away from me?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” she said. “My research would go much better without you. You’re . . . you’re just getting in my way. You know nothing about my world, so you can’t help me. You can barely dress yourself, you still eat with your hands half the time, you can’t read or write our language, and I have to explain the simplest things to you. It would be a thousand times better if you left me alone.” Her hands were gripping the chair back so hard her knuckles appeared to be about to come through the skin.
When she glanced up at him, the naked pain on his face was more than she could bear. He had to leave, she thought. He had to let her piece her mind and body back together. Before she yet again humiliated herself with tears, she turned and left the room. Once she was in her own sleeping alcove, she leaned against the door and cried deeply.
Just to get this over, she thought, to send him away, to go back home and never even look at another man again, that’s what she needed.
She fell down on her bed, buried her face in her pillow, and cried silently. She cried for a long time, until the worst of it was over and she began to feel better. And once her tears were shed, she began to think more clearly.
How stupid she’d been acting! What had Nicholas done wrong? She visualized him sitting in a dungeon awaiting execution for a crime he didn’t commit, then the next minute he’s floating through the air and he’s in the twentieth century.
She sat up and blew her nose. And how well he’d handled everything! He’d adjusted to automobiles, paper money, a strange language, strange food, and . . . And a weepy woman suffering from the rejection of another man. Yet, through it all, Nicholas had been generous with his money, his laughter, and his knowledge.
And what had Dougless done? She’d been furious with him because he’d dared marry another woman some four hundred years ago.
When she looked at it that way, it was almost humorous. She glanced up at the door. Her room was dark, but there was light coming under the door. The things she’d said to him! Awful, terrible things.